


Toward the Sunshine

by Flynne



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 22:22:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flynne/pseuds/Flynne
Summary: To Dorian’s knowledge, nobody knows why the Inquisitor’s horns were cut off, or how long ago it was done.





	Toward the Sunshine

_ “Keep your face always toward the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you.” - Walt Whitman _

_ \-------------------------------------- _

The castle is never quite warm enough, especially in the absurdly high tower they’ve given to the Inquisitor for his quarters, but Aster is better than a hot water bottle - much heavier, it must be said, but Dorian is quite content to be held down with Aster’s head cushioned by a pillow in his lap as he sits on the wide bed. The pinched look around Aster’s eyes has gradually faded, gentled away by the light press of Dorian’s fingertips on the sides of his head. 

“Feeling any better?” Dorian asks, keeping his voice low in case Aster has drifted off. 

But his eyes open at once, the clear blue depths hazy with contentment. “It helps.”

Dorian hums his satisfaction, pleased with himself. A healer he may not be, but he’s learned a few things over the years and soothing a headache is certainly not beyond him. “If it’s still bothering you, I can go get a draught from Adan. His day isn’t complete until he gets to complain about someone asking him to do his job.”

“I’m all right for now.” Aster smiles up at him before closing his eyes again with a sigh.

Dorian resumes stroking Aster’s temples, fingertips moving in small circles against the sides of his head. He’s watching Aster’s face, not paying close attention to anything else, so when his thumbnail inadvertently scrapes against a horn, he flinches and apologizes. 

“It’s okay,” Aster says without opening his eyes. Then, after a short pause, adds, “You can touch them. I don’t mind.”

Dorian hesitates only a moment before giving in to curiosity and very carefully tracing his fingertips around the base of one broad horn. The skin is very thin and soft over the heavy bone of his skull, the horn rising in a thick, ridged column for a few inches before ending abruptly. It’s cool to the touch, a bit jarring after the heat of Aster’s skin, and while the cut edges must have been sharp once, they’re blunted now, smooth like stones washed by waves.

Dorian knows Aster’s horns don’t have any sensation, but he must be able to sense how his thumb is worrying the edge. “A band of Qunari cut them off,” he says quietly.

Dorian stills. To his knowledge, nobody knows why Aster’s horns were cut, or how long ago it was done. Sera had wondered aloud once, idle talk while making camp, but the Iron Bull cut her off.  _ I haven’t asked, _ he’d said. He hadn’t looked up from the tent stake he was hammering into the ground, but although he hadn’t spoken harshly, there was a finality to his tone that even irreverent Sera acknowledged. Aster, engaged in discussion with the requisition officer, hadn’t heard.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he murmurs. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t wondered about it, but part of him hasn’t wanted to know; even though he knows how the story will end - with Aster safe and drowsy beside him - something in him shrinks back at the thought of hearing about him being mistreated or in pain, no matter how long ago it was.

“It’s all right. It’s not really something I tell people about, but...” Aster looks up, solemn and earnest. “I’d like you to know.”

As if Dorian can deny him anything. He gives a little shrug, trying and mostly succeeding at sounding nonchalant, and resumes stroking his temples. “Well, then. By all means, go ahead.”

“I was twenty. The Qunari must have heard about me - Vashoth mages aren’t common. They’d lost their Saarebas. I don’t know how he died. But they decided that I was convenient, so they caught me when I was alone and tried to bring me under the Qun. They had me four days before the Valo-Kas killed them and got me out.”

“The Valo-Kas were looking for you, then?” Dorian asks, trying not to think of all the horrible things he’s heard about Qunari reeducation practices.

Aster smiles a little. “No, actually. They just happened to be in the area. Sata-Kas was scouting ahead and found them camped in front of a cave. She noticed that the Arvaarad didn’t have anyone to guard, and happened to pass by in time to see him enter the cave. I was too deep in the cave for her to see me, but, well. Caves echo. She heard me, guessed what was going on, and brought the rest of the crew back after nightfall.” 

Dorian swallows hard, feeling vaguely nauseated. Screaming. The scout had heard echos of Aster screaming.

“Shokrakar and the others looked after me for a few days, until the qamek wore off enough for me to be able to communicate and tell them who I was and where I was from.”

Anger clenches like a fist inside Dorian’s gut. “I see,” he says at last. His voice is steady, but his hands, resting lightly against Aster’s face, are trembling.

Aster reaches up to curl a reassuring hand around his wrist. “I don’t really remember that time clearly.” 

Dorian bristles. “Well, I suppose that makes everything all right, then. Is that supposed to make me feel better?” His sarcasm is sharp enough to draw blood, but Aster knows it’s not directed at him, and guides his hand over to kiss his palm. The gentle touch tears something in Dorian’s chest, and he softly brushes the pad of his thumb across Aster’s lips. There are no visible scars around his mouth, but time and magic can heal and hide a multitude of evils.

“They didn’t,” Aster murmurs, understanding the cold fear Dorian is unable to voice. “The Valo-Kas rescued me before they could get me docile enough to try.”

The word  _ docile _ makes Dorian’s stomach churn again. He closes his eyes, calming himself by lightly stroking the base of Aster’s horns, focusing on the warmth of the smooth skin beneath his fingertips, the weight of the heavy head in his lap. When he opens his eyes again, Aster is watching him, fond and far too knowing.

Dorian clears his throat. “What did they look like?”

His question is a bit vague, but Aster knows what he means, lets himself be guided through the change in subject. “They curved back around my head, like a ram’s.”

“You must have been quite fetching.”

“Meaning I’m not fetching now?”

“Look at you, fishing for compliments,” Dorian tuts. “As if you don’t know you’re a fine strapping specimen of a man. Behavior like that will only prove Mother Giselle right. I’ve been far too much of a corrupting influence on you.”

Aster smiles up at him, mischief glinting in his eyes. “We can only hope.” 

Dorian can only smile back, helplessly fond. “Absolutely irredeemable.”

“If we’re lucky.” Aster shifts and sits up. Dorian has only a scant moment to miss his warmth before Aster draws him near and takes him into his arms.

“Not that I’m complaining, amatus,” Dorian says, relishing the tension in Aster’s embrace as he leans back - not enough to pull away, just enough to make him work for it, “but what about your headache?”

Aster reels him in, wide palm spread between his shoulders, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head. “Someone took care of it.”

“Oh. Well, that shows a certain level of skill and foresight, doesn’t it?” His mouth tingles where his smirk brushes featherlight against Aster’s lips.

Aster’s low chuckle thrums delightfully through Dorian’s chest where they’re pressed together. “Something like that.”


End file.
